


Ground Control

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-20
Updated: 1999-03-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Inspector Thatcher and Lt Welsh have to bail out Benny and Ray yet again. Based on the episode "Starman".





	Ground Control

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Ground Control 

Due South came back on Australian air on Saturday (yay!),  
starting with Starman. I loved the part where the major explained to  
Fraser and Ray that the only reason they weren't being jailed for thirty  
years was through the intervention of the government of Canada and the  
Chicago PD, who claimed that the pair were of "diminished mental capacity".  
I couldn't help but wonder just how the conversation between Thatcher  
and Welsh went...

Usual disclaimers. 

Nik  
\---------------  


# Ground Control

Inspector Thatcher stared at Lieutenant Welsh, unwilling to believe him, but knowing, just knowing, that he was telling the truth. "They did what?" she said flatly, but waved him silent when he opened his mouth to repeat what he'd just said. "They really did." 

She sat back in the chair, looking around at the lieutenant's office. It was Friday night. This was not how she'd intended to spend Friday night. 'Alone with a man' might still apply to her situation, but none of the other criteria did. 

"So... we need to do something." 

She made a sound that she dared him, with a piercing glare, to call a snort. He declined, pushing the fax towards her. "They're facing jail. A rather long time in jail." 

It was tempting. It was so very tempting. But she pushed the thought to the back of her mind, remembering that the dignity of Canada did not allow for Mounties rotting in American jails. She glanced at the fax, and then at the lieutenant. " _Sedition_? They're trying to do him for _sedition_? I'm sorry, but if any country charges him for disturbing the peace of the state, it's going to be mine." 

"Yeah, well, if anyone's going kill those two, it's going to be me. So we gotta bail them out." Lieutenant Welsh looked at her for inspiration. He looked about as thrilled as she felt, and he wore the expression of resigned irritation she had come to know so well since Fraser had come back from his three months' sick leave. 

It was a change for them to be on the same side in a Fraser/Vecchio situation. Perhaps Fraser was in fact doing his bit for Canada-US relations. Thatcher shook her head, dismissing the thought, and studied the fax once again. "So what would it take to get them off?" 

"An extremely good reason for their being there?" 

She laughed, but it was without mirth. "They had a very good reason. Fraser always has a good reason for what he does. He's helping people. But somehow, I don't think that'll hold up in court." 

Welsh shrugged, and reached for an aspirin, pulling loose the collar of his dress shirt. Somewhat resentfully, Thatcher noted that he was dressed for an evening out; opera, perhaps. She herself had been at home with a carton of ice-cream and a video, trying to push thoughts of steamy incubators and white undershirts out of her mind, when the phone call came. Mad, she must be mad; after all Fraser had put her through so far, to be... 

"Mad," she announced with grim triumph. Welsh looked at her blankly. 

"Diminished responsibility. They're mentally deficient? ...or is that not politically correct?" 

"I don't care if it's correct or not." The lieutenant was grinning maliciously now. "I could go for that. Diminished mental capacity - that would explain a lot about the pair of them." 

"It's not exactly a lie," the inspector told him with a dangerous smile. "Because when they get back, I'm going to lobotomise them." 

"Need a surgical assistant?" Welsh offered hopefully. 

"No, because I'm going to do it with the heel of my stiletto." 

* * * * * 

Fraser stood before her, in his usual 'oh, dear' stance. Posture even straighter than before - did he use a spirit-level to square his shoulders? \- hands behind his back, eyes fixed on some imaginary point behind her head."I'm terribly sorry, ma'am," he was saying. 

Of course he was apologising. Most of the time he was in her office, he was apologising. The rest of the time, he was trying to persuade her to let him - or more recently, help him - help someone he'd met off the street. 

She had been so sure they were starting to understand each other. After Clouthier, after the eggs... she'd even toyed with the idea that he might respect her. And now this. 

"Was it entirely necessary to break into a military base _twice_?" she asked him, more out of habit than anything else. Of course it was necessary. Just as it was necessary to get himself thrown into jail to help that subversive American detective, and to lock himself in a bank vault with no apparent means of escaping before he died. And, and, and... 

"It wasn't my idea, precisely, ma'am," he told her earnestly. "You see, Mr MacDonald felt that it would..." 

She tuned out of his explanation, worried that if she listened to it, she'd find it had a perverse sort of logic. Fraser was a good officer, a good cop; he had virtues she spent many nights cataloguing, but she did _not_ want to start thinking like him. 

It suddenly occurred to her that something was wrong with him. His alert tone was forced, and from time to time, he widened his eyes, shaking his head slightly. 

"Fraser, are you all right?" she asked him, interrupting his monologue. He tipped his head to one side. 

"Ma'am?" 

There was the hint of shadow under his eyes. "Have you had any sleep recently, Constable? You look tired." 

He shrugged, resigned. "Perhaps I am... I've been a little busy, ma'am." 

She tapped the report with a forefinger. "Yes, I know. But that was on Friday." 

He took a breath, knowing, even through the fog of exhaustion shrouding his brain, that she was not going to like this. "Well, yes, the incident with Mr MacDonald and the Rosewell base was on Friday, but you see, on Saturday, a young child in my neighbourhood was..." 

She cut him off. "Constable!" 

He eyed her warily as she stared back at him in silence for a long moment. Finally, she sighed. 

"Two days. You couldn't go for two days without helping someone." It was her turn to take a deep breath, trying to work out how best to explain this to him. "You know, Fraser, you do a lot of good in the community. Your desire to help others is commendable and it does you and the uniform credit, but you also have responsibilities to this job." 

"I honestly thought I could balance them both, ma'am. The child..." 

She winced, rubbing her forehead. Slightly alarmed, Fraser shut his mouth and regarded her for a moment. 

"Ma'am?" 

"Okay." She tried to smile at him, but it came out strained; Fraser's exhaustion must be catching. "What you did on your weekend is not my business. The fact that the Canadian government had to extricate you from a delicate military situation is. I have to be able to report that you understand and regret the consequences of your actions." 

"If it's any help, ma'am, I do." 

"I know you do, Fraser." He always did. "But there will have to be some sort of disciplinary action." Like what, though? She didn't want to suspend him. And she was tired of sending her best officer out to fetch her dry-cleaning. She looked up at him, hoping for inspiration, and saw that his eyes were wild, determinedly widened, and his expression was verging on manic. This man was not going to be able to stay awake for very much longer, but he was going to rupture something trying. 

She glanced down at her list of things to do, and realised that, although Fraser half-asleep was probably still far more competent than Turnbull, she did not want to risk any of the tasks on him in his present condition. She sighed and looked out the window, then back at her deputy. "You know what's coming up, don't you?" 

"Yes, ma'am." Oddly enough, he looked rather relieved. 

"Sentry duty. I'll revise the situation tomorrow. Use the time to consider why it isn't a particularly good idea for Canadians to storm US military bases." 

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." And with that, he was gone, leaving the white wolf behind to stare at her. She stared back; she'd had cats as a child, and could play the game. 

"I suppose we're about to find out if people really can fall asleep on their feet, right? He was doing so well, too... it's been weeks since I had him on sentry duty." She suddenly realised what she was doing, shaking her head in disbelief. "I'm talking to the wolf. When did this start?" Maybe Fraser was having a more insidious effect on her than she thought. She shuddered at that, and went to get some coffee. It was going to be a very long day. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Nicola Heiser 

A wolf wins all fights but one, and in that one, he dies. 

Nicola Heiser died on 24th October 1997, and is greatly missed by her friends and fans of her writing. 


End file.
